


Refracting Prisms

by lilithqueen



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: 5.0 spoilers, F/M, duskwight feels, gelmorra feels, ysayle feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:49:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 13,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24170848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithqueen/pseuds/lilithqueen
Summary: Vignettes from my Warrior of Light's life, following a prompt list fromTumblr (not mine).Featuring plenty of Duskwight feels, strong emotions over Gelmorra and the Echo-bearers' relation to Hydaelyn, and guest appearances by various Scions and assorted NPCs!
Relationships: Emmanellain de Fortemps/Warrior of Light
Comments: 34
Kudos: 6





	1. Omen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hit me up at [ffxiv-swarm!](http://ffxiv_swarm.tumblr.com/)

It would have been nice, probably, if Rinette Habelliard’s birth had been heralded by a summer thunderstorm or a lunar eclipse or a meteor shower. Something impressive, at any rate. Instead, she came squalling into the world on a perfectly dull, flat, ordinary day, when there hadn’t even been anything stronger than a light breeze for weeks. Her parents, likewise ordinary, thought this was a good sign. They were already raising a good, respectable Gridanian boy; surely their daughter would be the same.

On her first visit to their neighborhood’s day school, she punched the head teacher’s son for calling her _Grey_ and it all went downhill from there. By the time she began to fall ill—with migraines, fainting fits, terrifying hallucinations that made the conjurers at the Fane shrug and shake their heads—her parents had more or less accepted it. Yes, their Lancifer was a shining star, a credit to their family and their people, but Rinette?

Well...at least she could cook. Looks would fade, but good baking was eternal.


	2. Unspoken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> when you ship your oc with an unpopular npc you have to feed yourself

The insistent chiming of her linkpearl shatters the silence between them, and she reluctantly excavates one arm from beneath the warmth of their covers and his body to answer it. For a long moment she’s quiet, ears twitching, before she sets it aside with a sigh. “Ah, shite, I’ve gotta head out.”

He’s still conscious enough to respond, even though his limbs feel like lead; the knowledge that she _will_ flick his ear to alert him if he pretends to be asleep while she’s leaving is enough for him to roll over. “Mm?”

She’s pulling away. Damn. “Got a call—they need me in Ala Mhigo.”

Well, he’s awake _now_. She’s getting dressed, which is always bittersweet; the view is glorious, but so is watching her slide into the armor of a Warrior of Light. But still… “It’s not a primal, is it?”

She’s putting her hair back up. He’d enjoyed unraveling those braids the night before; now he finds his gaze lingering on her hands, trying to see how she puts them to rights. It’s a good distraction. He still hears her words, but they don’t send ice-cold dread spiking into his heart. Yet. “Aye, another summoning of Lakshmi. We’ve been trying to talk to the Qalyana, but...well...”

“But they’re tempered.” _Thou shalt not suffer one touched by a primal to live._ Scripture and common sense agree; until he’d met the Scions, he’d never met anyone so upset by it.

But she’s different, and her gaze is downcast for a moment under the transparent guise of applying her makeup. He doesn’t have to ask why; she’s told him enough times of the fate of those who aren’t Echo-blessed and think they can face primals. He still remembers the last time she’d fought Titan. “Aye.”

He should say something reassuring. What actually comes out, as he rests his elbows on his knees and stares at the bearskin thrown across his damask coverlet, is “...It’s a shame, isn’t it? All this fighting?” He’s not thinking about her, really—though he supposes it’s related, because until he’d met _her_ he would have been the first idiot up to carve a bloody swathe through what most of Eorzea calls beastmen, until they summoned their gods in their pain and made her life harder. She’d told him about the Ehcatl Nine, about the Brotherhood of Ash, about Novv’s clutch who only wanted to raise their children—and so when she’d gone to improve relations with the Vanu Vanu, he’d swallowed his fear and his pride and asked to visit. He’s thinking about them now.

She sucks in a breath and lets it out with a growl. “You don’t have to tell _me_. Every time I hear someone call ‘em bloody _beasts—_ ”

Aether is flickering blue and brilliant along her fingers as she slams down her makeup case, crackling along the gold, and his ears are pinning back in _fear_ and _threat_ and _danger_ a moment before he finds his voice. “Save your rage for the primal, old girl!”

“...You’re right.” And she’s standing up, running a hand over her braids, and coming back to their bedside to fetch the dragon-horned mask she keeps on his nightstand. He wants to reach for her, tug her back into bed, but he doesn’t dare. “Well...guess I’ll be going...”

She’s not looking at him. Suddenly, he wants her to look at him more than he has ever wanted anything in his life. “...Ritanelle?”

“Yeah?” The edge of her gaze slides to him, and his throat goes dry.

He knows she loves her job, knows that the only missions she’ll ever turn down come from the Black Shroud, knows that she wants to protect all the people of Eorzea, and knows—too well—that a woman who makes a career out of killing gods never considers the possibility that she might fall to one. _I eat primals for breakfast, Emm,_ she’ll say, laughing. _You think I’m scared of them?_ Every time they say goodbye could too easily be her last. There’s a faint smile curling around the corners of her eyes, and he can’t speak.

_I’ll think of you while you’re gone._

_I’d follow you if I could._

_I love you._

“...Take care.”

And there’s that laugh, soft and bright. When she isn’t heading off to war, it warms his heart; now, it feels more like a stab. “Don’t I always?”

“Rita!”

She’s halfway to the door, and he’s watching her go. Go off to fight a primal, to meet her death—no. No, he refuses to think like that. She will be _fine._ She has skilled comrades and the blessings of the star itself on her side. Silhouetted in the doorway, she pauses and looks back at him. “I’ll...I’ll be back soon, alright?” Does she sound sad? In the half-light of a Coerthan dawn, he’s not sure.

He nods. He makes himself smile at her. “I expect a full account upon your return, you know.”

“I’ll take notes!”

Her grin stays with him long after she’s gone. It’s there to greet him when she comes back, flush with victory and eager to tell the whole garrison her story. Months go by, and in all honesty he...forgets, mostly, about the things he hasn’t been able to tell her, the things that might upend their cozy relationship.

When the day comes that she does not return, when she goes to Mor Dhona and _vanishes, how could they lose_ _ **Warriors of Light**_ _,_ he wishes he had.


	3. Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually unironically love Moren.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Ritanelle Soleil. I will—I will _sit_ on you!”

“...I’d love to see you try, Moren.”

“I will...I will hit you with _this book!”_

“And damage the binding?”

“I can rebind it, do _not_ test me! You’re meant to be resting!”

Rita rolled her eyes, ignoring Moren’s outraged squawk. _You nearly burn out your aether one time helping Raha and everyone hovers._ “We’re just going to help Beq Lugg with their library. It can’t be that dangerous.”

Moren narrowed his eyes at her. “You say that about everything. You said that about the Lightwardens.”

She winced. That hadn’t been her finest hour. Or week. Or month, come to think about it. In her defense, it had taken a while to notice the effects of her aetheric imbalance. “Look, Morri, I promise I’ll take it easy. I’ll just...find a chair somewhere and sit down with the card catalogue and only throw spells if it looks like Alphy can’t handle it, alright?”

The doubtful twist of his mouth spoke volumes, but he finally sighed, “You’ll go whether or not I’m willing to part with my favorite researcher, won’t you.”

Her ears felt hot at the praise— _favorite researcher, really?—_ but she couldn’t help but grin at the knowing smile on his face. “Would you expect anything else from a Warrior of Light?”

“Self-preservation instincts?”

Mock-offended, she clasped a hand to her chest. “I’ll have you know I’m the strategist among my friends back home!”

His sigh sounded like it came from the depths of his soul. “As you say, Mistress Ritanelle.”

“You doubt me? I’m crushed!”

She was very nearly late for the amaro to the Grand Cosmos, but she couldn’t bring herself to mind too much. The First had its good points.


	4. Whimsy

The Crystarium was nothing like home, but shops were shops anywhere, and there was some scrap of normalcy to be found in browsing them with a crowd of her friends.

Even if Ritanelle had never gone shopping with _these_ friends before. She strolled along the street and watched, smiling, as the others ran ahead. Titan-egi floated by her side, loaded down with their purchases; for a moment, she could imagine herself back in Ul’dah or Revenant’s Toll.

“Oh, are those vanilla tarts?”

“Let’s get some—agh, no, there’s a line!”

“We can wait...”

“Ryne. _Ryne._ Have you ever had a chocolate cream pie?”

“...Um. No?”

“Come on!”

As Alisaie and Gaia pulled Ryne to the patisserie run by a round-cheeked miqo’te, Ritanelle glanced down at Y’shtola. “Did _we_ ever run around everywhere like them?”

Y’shtola raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow at her. “We are spellcasters.”

“So’s Alisaie.” She paused, reminded of the younger woman’s fancy swordwork. “...Sort of.” Honestly, it made her sort of jealous. She was a good dancer, but she’d never have the strength or stamina for fencing in a thousand years...unless she exercised. Ew.

And then the maiden in question returned with a selection of tiny cakes on paper plates and insisted they all try some, and Ritanelle decided this spur-of-the-moment shopping trip had been an excellent idea.


	5. Sacrifice

_Who fights?  
Who falls?_

Each breath burns.

She is sitting on a bench under the sea, surrounded by the sights and sounds of the dream of a city, and her lungs feel like they’re cracking from the inside out out with the furnace heat of the Light within her. She can’t...she can’t do this, not anymore.

She tilts her head back and lets her eyes close. She doesn’t want to keep them open. Behind her, seated on planters and curbs and low walls, her friends are coming up with plans of attack. Eirk’a’s taken some Light of his own; she can hear the rasp of his breath with each word. Even now (dying, she’s _dying),_ she’s glad she’d stood in front of him in Amh Araeng and Rak’tika and Mount Gulg, preventing him from absorbing more. She’s the spellcaster of the two of them, after all.

Even if it’s killing her. She breathes in and out again, deep, even though it makes something deep in her chest cavity twinge fiercely. If she gives into her fear, she’ll only die faster. _Maybe...maybe it would be for the best. To end it quickly…_

G’raha Tia’s hooded smile. Moren’s ink-stained hands. Emet-Selch’s condescending fucking smirk, which she just itches to slap off his face. All of her friends and loved ones on the Source, who will never know what happened to her if she gives up here.

_No._

She makes herself open her eyes. Her voice feels like it’s coming from a place even deeper underwater than they already are. “So. Tell me the plan, Thancred.”


	6. Shattered

“ _The eldest and the most powerful...of_ _ **primals**_ _.”_

She walks in a world of crystal. Part of her—the still-conscious part—is aware that she’s dreaming, but it seems very far away. Everything around her is silent, save for the soft crunch of her boots on the rock and the sound of her own breathing. When she lifts her head, she spies crystal flowers floating through a crystalline sky. It should be beautiful, but all she feels is a distant sorrow.

“ _...Beloved...”_

“ _If she’s a primal, then—are we…?”_

Blink. She’s on the bench of a ferry heading to Limsa Lominsa, hearing again the reverberating chimes of Hydaelyn’s words. She almost chokes at the emotion that slices through her core, at the love and protection that’s soaking into her bones. When all else fails her, she knows that Hydaelyn never will.

“ _Crystal mum, can you hear me? If you can, just—just fuckin’ answer me! Have we ever had a choice?!”_

Blink. She’s on the crystal road again. She breathes in and out—and hears something crack.

Before her and behind her, all around her, the crystalline world is breaking apart, falling into an endless, hungry void. In the sky, the crescent moon grows teeth and laughs, cold and cruel and shaking the entire world. She knows she should be afraid, but in the way of dreams all emotion is unreachable. Over the terrible laughter, her voice is barely audible to her own ears. “Mother?!”

She is standing on the thinnest spire of crystal, shadows seething around her, and nothing answers.

When she wakes to Eirk’a asking if she’s alright, she’s crying into her pillow and can’t remember why.


	7. Tomorrow

There were worse places to wait out the eve of battle than Camp Bronze Lake, really. The hot springs had plenty of food and wine; if Rita wanted, she could happily spend the night relaxing before their dawn trek into kobold territory. She didn’t dare. The last time she’d faced a primal had been…

She closed her eyes and remembered fire, remembered a frantic scramble across a ring of flame.

“Nervous?”

Her ears twitched as she looked up at their adventurer contact; where she’d been leaning her elbows on a table and picking at a meal she could have made better and with more spices, he’d sidled over to have a smoke out of the way of the wind. If it wouldn’t have kept her up, she’d have borrowed one. “Oh, Master Forrest. It’s...” After a moment’s thought, she shook her head. “It’s not that.” Gods, she hated asking for help, but… “How did your lot fight Titan? Not the—not the preliminary preparations, I mean, but the actual fight?”

Riol Forrest closed his good eye, looking pained. “Wasn’t easy, I can tell you that much. Bastard knocked a lancer friend of ours right off the edge of a cliff, an’ I nearly died when he trapped my legs in th’ rubble. You’re an arcanist, aye? How good are you at casting on th’ move?”

 _Summoner. I’m a summoner._ She didn’t bother explaining the difference; even Y’shtola had looked at her a little strangely, and she couldn’t imagine mentioning things like egis and austerities to people without that background in esoteric magic would go over well. She’d probably get herself banned from the mission. “Pretty good, I’d say.”

He took a long drag, eyeing her speculatively. “Just good?”

She nibbled on a shred of something billed as eft steak. It needed pepper. “This is only my second time facing a primal, sir.”

“You fought Ifrit an’ lived. Don’t sell yourself short.”

 _I’m trying not to. “You have the Echo, you can’t be tempered” is what they told me, but...gods, let it not have been some kind of fluke. Let me come out of this still whole of mind._ “If you say so, sir.”

Riol snorted. “An’ stop callin’ me sir! We’re comrades in this, it’s no time to be formal.”

“...Master Forrest?”

“ _Riol.”_

“...Riol.” It went some way to defusing the tension, at least; she couldn’t help but smile in response to his grin. “Don’t worry about me; I have every intention of making it out alive. I haven’t even gotten to relax at the hot springs here yet!”

He chuckled at that. “Something to look forward to after the battle, eh?”

“Aye!”

 _Yeah_ , she thought as she applied herself to her meal again. _Tomorrow, after I defeat my second primal...I’ll have a nice soak in the hot springs, and then I’ll go home to the Waking Sands. I can’t wait to tell Tataru all about it._


	8. Confrontation

“Pardon us. We’re searching for a...Rinette Habelliard, on suspicion of murder.”

Ritanelle froze in the hallway, suddenly feeling far too exposed. Absurdly, her first thought was _But this isn’t Gridania._ She was supposed to be safe in Ishgard, shielded by the walls and swords of House Fortemps. If the Brass Blades couldn’t get to her, then the Wood Wailers certainly shouldn’t be able to. This could not be happening.

The footman was saying something, indistinct even to her ears.

Fear relaxed its hold over her limbs for the space of a breath, and she turned and bolted deeper into the house. _Hide. I have to—have to find somewhere to hide—_

Her footsteps took her down malms of hallways, past what seemed like endless locked doors. Her lungs burned, but she kept going. Emmanellain’s bedroom had a balcony overlooking the gardens below—it would be a long drop and it was bloody well freezing out there, but she was sure she could make it with her magic. From there, she could hide somewhere until it blew over; they surely wouldn’t search the whole city for her, would they?

Emmanellain’s rooms contained the man himself, blinking at her sudden entrance in complete bafflement. From the charts spread out on his desk, he was working on a lesson plan for Honoroit and had _finally_ taken up her suggestion that they teach the boy algebra. “Ritanelle, old girl, whatever’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

She all but slammed the door closed behind her, slumping against the wood as she caught her breath. Running _hurt._ “It’s—people are looking for me—I have to get out of here.” She squeezed her eyes shut, focusing on her breathing. She was _not_ going to have a panic attack in front of her friend.

“Oh, Fury.” She heard him take a shaky breath before settling warm hands on her arms. “Where are they? At the front entrance?”

She nodded, sending up a prayer to whoever would listen that the footman was still delaying them.

“You can make it out through the balcony, can’t you?”

She sucked in a breath and opened her eyes, pulling away from him. He looked a little wounded, but he could deal with it. “Well, I can’t hide under your bed, can I?” Wailers weren’t as easily defeated as the trees that haunted her nightmares.

He hovered a little, uselessly, but when she didn’t immediately sprint for it—her legs seemed to have frozen up again—he let a hand rest on her hip. “Go, then. I’ll hold them off!”

_Wait._

“You’ll what.”

His grin didn’t touch his eyes. “You must know I take somewhat of a dim view on things that upset you this much. And I _do_ know how to treat unwelcome guests.”

A sudden chill ran down her spine as the faint suggestion of a voice reached her. _Oh no oh no did they let them in I can’t—_

“Go!”

She ran.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> emmanellain: why yes, gentlemen, I’d be glad to tell you all about the many, many, _many_ young ladies that might possibly match your description. terribly sorry not to be of help. i'm sure you have ever so many places to be that are _not here_.


	9. Infinity

Wiyu opens her eyes to a field of green light. Her body feels very, very far away; she can’t even wiggle her fingers, never mind feel the heavy grimoire that once rested at her hip.

That _had_ rested at her hip, before...before…

Odin.

 _Oh. That’s right. I...I died, didn’t I?_ It comes back to her in flashes—blood on the scorched grass, looking around to realize her comrades were dying around her, Odin’s blade in her gut a split second before her own spells landed. She remembers watching the primal fade into light, remembers wondering what sort of egi her surviving friends would make of it.

She remembers waking up like this before, only for a moment, at the first touch of someone else’s hand.

_...Hello…?_

Clatter. She suspects she’s been dropped, but whoever is holding her picks her up again. “I think it talked to me!”

 _It?! I am most certainly not an ‘it!’ I am a summoner of high Allag!_ However many years (centuries? _millennia?!)_ have passed since her death, she’s sure that whoever picked up her soul crystal has to at least know that much.

The voice—a woman’s—is softer now. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know this crystal was, ah...inhabited. Are you...” A nervous swallow. “Are you Wiyu?”

_So you know your history, at least._

A slow exhale. “I have the Echo. I can’t _avoid_ knowing my history. I wouldn’t have picked up this soulstone if I didn’t know about other famous summoners.”

For the first time, Wiyu feels a sense of eagerness. _Another summoner?! It’s been so long—do you want to learn, girl?_

“I do.” There’s no hesitation whatsoever; this girl is either a complete fool, or utterly confident in her skills. “And my name is Ritanelle.”

 _Ritanelle._ People have such strange names in this era. _Let me teach you._


	10. Sacred

There are no churches for Hydaelyn. Her children think of her—if they think of her at all—in the privacy of their own hearts, in whispered words, in oblique references lest people look at them strangely. If others even know of the Mothercrystal, they certainly don’t think she speaks, never mind that her chosen children can hear her. All those who serve her do so alone.

And when one of her children falls…

After the longest two weeks of Ritanelle’s life, she finally makes it back to Moghome. She’s heard that heretics honor her in their own spaces—indeed, she’s thought of going to Anyx Trine or Sohm Al for this—but when she thinks of Ysayle it is here, gazing in starry-eyed adoration at dancing moogles. She’ll never forget the sight of the woman giggling as she was showered by pink light. The moogles themselves are happy to see her, but something in her expression warns them to stay away; she thanks the gods for that, because if she opens her mouth yet she will cry.

The plateau above Moghome is quiet; as dusk falls, it is lit by glowing Dravanian puffball trees and the faraway light of the moon. It’s the work of a moment for her to make a fire and set out a tiny pot of stew to warm. It is, objectively, _terrible_ stew; Ysayle had made it with stringy dried meat and overboiled root vegetables and no seasoning besides salt, but the taste is seared into Rita’s memory. And then she sits, with her back against a carved stone, and prays.

_Mother Hydaelyn. Your beloved daughter, Ysayle Dangoulain...let her rest in your embrace. Let her find peace in whatever awaits beyond. Let...let her memory…_

She chokes on a sob, scrubbing her eyes with the back of her hand as memories flicker behind her eyelids—memories of a woman ready to fight for her convictions and atone for her sins, a woman who loved her comrades so fiercely it had lit up the sky. She remembers cooking together, Ysayle teaching her how to set up a tent that wouldn’t collapse in Coerthan winds, joining her in bawdy songs until even Estinien had had to slam his helm’s visor down to hide a blush. She remembers standing atop Zenith as Hraesvelgr shattered Ysayle’s world, hugging the taller woman tightly as she sobbed.

_Mum,_ she thinks fiercely,  _you best make sure she knows she’s loved._

The stew tastes better than she remembers.


	11. Pillow

It was raining. It had been raining for three days. The other denizens of House Fortemps told them it was a good sign; surely, it meant the Fury’s mercy and the end of the Dragonsong War would lead to a thaw. All over Ishgard, Rita knew people were looking hopefully at the remnants of their years-out-of-date spring wardrobes and planning a resurrection. The general mood ranged from cautiously optimistic to outright giddy joy.

The Scions currently occupying Fortemps Manor hated it. The only one expressing any sort of cheer was Gantsetseg, and _that_ was because the dampness was good for her scales. Y’shtola and Eirk’a’s tails flattened miserably in the wet, and the twins’ hair had grown absolutely unmanageable outside of their customary braids. Rita woke every day feeling like her skull had been filled with cotton wool and her bones with lead; her own hair, evidently emboldened by the moisture in the air, had only been tamed by arranging it into a loose braid and ruthlessly pinning it up off the back of her neck.

And yet, because clearly she was some sort of masochist, she persisted in trying to read. In her defense, Emmanellain and Honoroit had just returned from their first trip to Ok’Gundu without her hovering to smooth over any diplomatic incidents, and Honoroit had taken exhaustive notes he’d wanted looked over by (in his words) a less biased party. So she took his notebook and curled up in one of the library’s window seats, trying to ignore the dull throbbing in her head as she sank into the boy’s terse, clear prose.

“Ah, _there_ you are, old girl.”

Emmanellain. She sighed and turned a page, shifting over so he could squeeze onto the cushion next to her. “Mm.”

“Well? How is it?” He sounded excited, which she couldn’t blame him for; after a low-grade panic attack that had lasted the entire airship ride to the Blue Window, his first meeting with the Gundu tribe had ended with him utterly swarmed by the youngest hatchlings while a gaelicat napped on his shoulder. (She reflected that she may have caused that; she _had_ rather talked up his prowess as a teacher somewhat to Sonu Vanu.)

She grunted something, and then realized that he probably wanted words. “It’s good.”

A warm arm slid around her shoulder, tugging her unresisting body against his side. She looked up to find him frowning thoughtfully down at her. “Be sure to correct the lad on my finer points, hm?”

She turned to rest her head on his shoulder, and couldn’t help her smile. “You mean you _weren’t_ chased screaming by a groundskeeper golem all the way back to Ok’Zundu?”

“I was not!” He huffed an indignant breath into her hair. “It was only a malm or so.”

Humming in amusement, she returned to her reading. The rain drumming on the window and the steady thump of Emm’s heart under her ear settled into her soul like a contented cat, and she found her attention drifting. Maybe she could rest her eyes for a moment…

By the time the notebook slid from her hands with a thump, she was already asleep.


	12. Keep

They say that Castrum Abania is impregnable.

They have not yet faced Ritanelle Soleil.

While Eirk’a melts into the shadows and Gantsetseg lights up the sky in spiralling flips of lightning, leaving death and destruction in their wake—while her other comrades charge ahead, clearing a path through Imperial resistance—Ritanelle walks. Her pace is measured, controlled; her face is a mask of fury, but she does not scream and launch herself at her foes as others do. Not _yet_ , at any rate. (Maybe if it was Zenos, just after the fall of the Reach. Maybe if it was Regula, again, just after Ysayle’s death. Maybe if—when—she comes face-to-face with rem Lupis, who brought a tower down on her friends’ heads—she’ll lose her temper. But _that_ is not _now_. Now, her friends’ lives depend on her self-control.)

( _In Ysayle’s name,_ she thinks. _For all those I’ve lost, and all I can yet save.)_

Where she walks, wreathed in azure flames, the keep falls.


	13. Healing

A broken ankle.

She was being kept from facing the Aery by a _broken ankle._

She’d learned the hard way not to jostle it; now, propped up on pillows, she glared at the tightly wrapped plaster on the end of her leg as though it would help it heal faster. “An’ this has to stay on for _how_ long?”

The chirurgeon was not sympathetic. No doubt the older woman had seen much worse injuries with much less complaining, but damn it, Rita was an adventurer, not a stoic Ishgardian knight. She’d killed _gods_ , she was allowed a bit of grumbling. “At least a week with regular applications of healing aether, Mistress Soleil. Preferably two.”

 _My friends will have to face whatever comes without me._ Sighing, she flopped down on the bed. “Alright, alright. Two weeks, I suppose.” It came out whinier than she intended, but two weeks of as much bed rest as possible after breaking her ankle running away from a melia was just _humiliating_. Even if it had been all her worst nightmares come to life.

“It’ll go by before you know it.” The chirurgeon patted her head like a child, which oddly enough did help her mood a bit. “I’m sure the staff here will attend to your every need.”

As the chirurgeon drifted away to pack up her supplies, Ritanelle wondered if she could safely mix wine with the medication they were giving her for the pain. At least she’d be a bit less bored if she was unconscious.


	14. Gods

The Twelve are venerated in Gridania, of course, but the greatest honor goes always to Nophica and the magnificent bounty she bestows upon her followers. There are those who say that Gridania is Eorzea’s Ishgard with its fervent devotion, and as far as Rita is concerned they aren’t entirely wrong. She’s picked up the profanity, but after what the Black Shroud has done to her—to her people—she can’t worship the Lady of Grain anymore. (No matter how devout you are, no matter how many tears you shed or how much blood you spill for this city, you are a Duskwight and you are _not worthy._ The forest looks upon you and turns its many eyes away from you, lest your shadows underground poison the greenery.)

When she leaves the Black Shroud for the first time, the sun beats down on her skin and sears her sensitive eyes, even with a hooded robe. She does most of her traveling after dusk, spending her days scuttling under rocks and trees like a lizard. It’s up to the moon to light her way through Thanalan.

She walks, lit by moonlight, and thinks about the Mother of the Moon. What she knows about the goddess is barely worth mentioning; the only people in Gridania who commonly devote themselves to her are Keepers, and those that she knows...well. They’ve bonded more over their ill-treatment by the rest of the city than any interest in religion. She knows that Menphina and Azeyma are sisters, that her element is ice, that she is called the Lover. She touches the healing scar on her neck and tries to remember a time when she was admired for who she was, rather than what people wanted her to be. (Be a respectable young maiden, a supportive sister, healthy and hardworking and a credit to your family and your race. Don’t be a burden.) She can’t think of any.

The full moon shines down on her as she makes camp, and she hopes it’s leading her somewhere where she’ll be loved.


	15. Wonderful

She found the cave by accident. A mission for the Scions had led her to the very borders of the Black Shroud searching for an Amal’jaa crystal cache, and she was on her way back when she’d spotted a deep crack in the rocks and obeyed the instinct to enter. At the time, she thought only that her friends would surely forgive her for being a little late if she found more crystals; it was only once she’d been walking for ages that she realized she’d discovered something else. Though the walls were dirty and worn, with stubborn plants taking root, they had once been finely carved. Someone had once lived here.

The tunnel grew wider, lit by gleaming crystals. At the end, two carved pillars flanked a stone door inlaid with intertwined serpents. Her hands shook as she pushed it open to the room beyond.

At first, she only registered a roundish cave, dark and cool, with water erupting from a crystal in the far wall. As she made her way in deeper, more details penetrated the dim light— _there,_ a slightly crumbling hearth connected to a group of stone ovens, _there,_ a set of carved stone stairs leading to an upper ledge. A faint breeze stirred her hair, and she realized that there must be airways connecting to the outside. Still, she didn’t fully realized where she was. And then she reached out to touch an openwork stone screen, trailing her bare fingers over it, and she _saw._

_The old woman sings to herself as she cooks, letting whirring air crystals carry away the scent of frying eft cutlets and mushrooms. She is barefoot on the cool grass, and her hair coils snow-white down to her hips. Waves of emotion roll off her—pride/contentment/peace. She’s lived a long life, had many adventures and children, and now it is time for her to rest. Crystals throw light onto shelves of books and intricately woven wall hangings, and Ritanelle knows she’d made them all herself. The chief geomancer of Gelmorra is more than happy to retire here, away from all her accolades._

_Gelmorra._

When she came back to herself, she’d been sitting on the floor for what felt like bells. Shakily, she got to her feet and rolled up her sleeves.

She’d been looking for a place to live that wasn’t a shared room in the Waking Sands, after all. Thankfully her friends all turned out to be willing to help; Tataru found her a good deal on the few pieces of furniture she needed, and Arenvald and Dariustel helped her set it up. Little by little, the bare rock was cleaned, new curtains hung, built-in shelving repaired. She had Garuda-egi clear out the airshafts until she had the chance to spend a few days setting up the crystal arrays that would keep the place ventilated and temperature-controlled, with the water running clear. In the back of her mind, the Echo sang to her of the old geomancer doing the same. And when it was done—when she could finally draw the curtains and fall asleep in her own bed, secure in the knowledge that she’d done well—she found herself wholeheartedly agreeing with the lady.

It was a good home.


	16. Hello

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Rita meets Eirk'a Demau, future fellow Scion and Hydaelyn's beloved son, for the first time.

It starts off as a day like any other day. For assessors, mornings in Mealvaan’s Gate mean a hasty breakfast, double-checking their assigned patrol routes, and setting off to the docks with their carbuncles. As an aetherophysics student, Ritanelle technically shouldn’t be out on assignment without a senior assessor, but they’re short-handed at the moment—something about a bad stomach bug going around—and so she’s trudging down the pier alone. Her emerald carbuncle trots along behind her, proudly displaying the collar that marks it as a creation of the Arcanist’s Guild.

Her first ship is a tall Lominsan galleon, the crates of cargo stacked neatly on the docks. The captain, a wiry hyuran man with a downright explosive beard, nods politely at her approach. Her gaze is on the cargo.

“This is it?”

He sounds half-asleep. The sun is warm enough that she really can’t blame him. “Aye.”

She pulls out her clipboard, frowning at the unopened crates. “Hmmm...” The ship’s declared two dozen crates of Ul’dahn wheat, and she waves a hand to set her carbuncle on alert. It leaps into action, sniffing around in a sparkling blur, while she tries to figure out if she’s going to need to open anything. It looks alright so far, and she relaxes a bit at a good start to the day. Maybe her streak will hold until her lunch break.

And then the carbuncle freezes, tails slowly rising up as it focuses on an unassuming crate near the back, and she sighs. _Well, so much for that._ “Sorry, sir, it looks like—“

The crate springs into the air. She has a moment of terror before realizing it’s launching itself behind her, making a break for the rest of the docks. “Mimic! After it!”

The sailors and dockworkers don’t need to be told twice; mimics are more than capable of wreaking havoc anywhere they can camouflage themselves, and the longer they hide the bigger (and hungrier) they get. She’s heard of mimics large enough to swallow a roegadyn whole. Somehow, she finds herself at the head of the furious pack chasing after the bouncing crate, legs pumping and lungs burning as she tries to keep it in sight. Beside her, the captain is hurling some _spectacular_ insults; she tries not to let it distract her as she frantically attempts to pull out her grimoire and run at the same time.

“Get— _back_ ‘ere—ye great bloody _bastard!”_ Her carbuncle is keeping pace with her for now, but she can’t even think of commanding it; if only the mimic would slow down so she could breathe! She prays it’ll head into the alleys. If she can get it against a wall, they have a fighting chance of subduing it.

She sees the flash of sunlight off steel a moment before the knife finds its mark, and has just enough time to stop herself from tripping over the suddenly inert mimic. The miqo’te who springs down from an upper story window to retrieve it is a head shorter than her, dark-skinned and dark-haired, and his face splits into an easy smile as he picks the mimic up. (With his _hands._ Granted, it’s at arms’ length, but is he insane? Really?)

“...Is this yours?”

She blinks down at him, feeling distinctly wrong-footed. Her heart is still pounding painfully. “Well. Uh. Technically it’s his...I guess...”

Unphased, the man holds the mimic out to the captain—who by now has caught up, and is eyeing them both with a sort of horrified suspicion. “Congratulations, you have a mimic.”

“I don’t want it!” Grumbling, the captain turns to stomp off, leaving Rita looking from him to the miqo’te in despair.

“So...I’ll be leaving that out of my report, then?” _Gods, I hope I don’t get in trouble for this. This is gonna look so bad on my grades!_ He ignores her. “Hey, wait!”

Belatedly, she realizes the miqo’te is looking at her with clear concern, ears twisting this way and that. “Are you alright?”

She’s still a little out of breath, but she’s not telling him that. “Oh, aye. Thanks for that, mate. You’re with the Little Sisters?” They don’t have anything like a uniform or a badge, but after living in Limsa Lominsa she’s learned to recognize the Little Sisters of the Edelweiss by their stance. And their eyes; like every one she’s met, this miqo’te’s eyes are never still, always scanning the area around him.

After a moment’s hovering around her left ear—he probably wasn’t expecting to be marked out—they focus on her. “...Ah...yeah. I am. Name’s Eirk’a.”

“Rita.” She’s sure to bow before he offers a hand to shake; the uniform of an assessor doesn’t include full gloves, and she’d rather not have another attack. She’s gotten good at predicting what will trigger them by now, and unexpected skin contact seems to be a big one. She does _not_ want to ruin a decent first impression by passing out on the boardwalk. Accordingly, she smiles at him. “You free around noon? I’ll buy you lunch, I owe you for that.”

He smiles back. “Deal.”


	17. Gentle

She’d been at Ok’Gundu for two weeks, defending their borders and rescuing their hatchlings and learning their language and generally making herself indispensable (not on purpose, really, she just wanted to _help)_ when Linu Vali asked for a few moments of her time. She was still brushing gaelicat fur off her jacket when she trotted over, just in time for the Vanu maiden to beam at her, clap her hands together, and announce, “Today, it is good winds for you to meet your own sanuwa!”

Ritanelle blinked up at her. “My own—I’m sorry, what?” Sanuwa were fierce, beautiful, majestic emblems of the Vanu people, soaring through the sky as though they were wind given form. _I have to have heard wrong. I can’t possibly deserve this. Maybe she means one I can borrow…?_

Linu Vali looked faintly exasperated. “Netherling has been brave, kind, and wise in her time here. She well deserves her own swift sanuwa to ride the winds, and Luna Vanu has enough grown ones that he will gladly give one to our netherling—if the netherling accepts, and does not wish to continue lumbering about like groundskeeper golem or borrowing those… _manacutters_ from Ishgard.” She said “manacutters” like it left a bad taste in her beak, and Rita couldn’t blame her. She’d learned how to steer one out of necessity, but she really wasn’t a fan of magitek. Fuel was _expensive._

Face hot, she nodded. “It would be a great honor.” And then she frowned up at her. “And I do not _lumber._ Hmph!”

Linu Vali snorted, amused, and gestured to the sanuwa keeper. “Luna Vanu waits for you.”

Rita hadn’t spent much time with Luna Vanu, and tried not to shrink in on herself defensively. The Vanu man was _big._ He seemed nice enough, and it was blatantly clear how much he loved his sanuwa, but it was hard not to be wary of anyone over a fulm taller than her. It helped a bit that he took a seat on a boulder when he saw her approach, gesturing for her to sit across from him. “Our little netherling wants a sanuwa of her own, yes?”

She nodded.

“Good!” Beaming at her, he pulled out an ocarina and played a few notes. As they hung in the air, he informed her, “Wait a moment, and the one for you will come like tame gaelicat. Here,”—he threw a leaf-wrapped package at her—“They love cloudfish.”

She looked up. The sanuwa roosted in trees by preference, but at this time of day they’d be hunting; it took a while before a slender violet-red one drifted down from the sky. As it drew closer, she swallowed hard. It had a _lot_ of teeth. When it landed in a coil of scales and muscles, its head was as large as her entire torso. It blinked huge dark eyes at her curiously, and she was frozen.

Somehow she forced out words. “Hello there, pretty one.”

It trilled and nudged her shoulder, and Luna Vanu murmured, “Gentle like summer breeze, netherling. Gentle.”

“I…alright.” Yes. Gentle. It was easier said than done when dealing with full-grown sanuwa. She’d seen them take a man’s arm clean off with one bite.

At least this one seemed docile enough. It took the package of cloudfish from her hand leaves and all, fangs not even scraping her skin, and immediately shoved its head into her hand in the clearest demand for nose-scritches she had ever seen. She couldn’t help but giggle as she obliged, especially once it started the steady rumbling trill that was the sanuwa equivalent of a purr. _I wish I had Krile’s ability to understand the speech of animals. I’d love to know what you’re saying._

Luna Vanu clapped his hands in delight. “She likes you! Now, it is for netherling to give her a name, so that she knows who she is.”

 _A name._ She closed her eyes for a moment, thinking hard. Names were important. Searching her store of Vanu vocabulary, she finally declared, “I think I’ll name you…Rama. How about that?”

Rama nuzzled her ear, and she laughed out loud.


	18. Kiss

Quick, teasing, barely there—an invitation, more than anything else. _So? How about it?_

Rough and passionate, pressing her (safe) against the wall. _Fury, yes. Yes._

Laughing, missing its intended target and meeting the corner of her mouth instead. _My room’s not far—come on!_

Lazy, heated. _We’ve all the time in the world._

Careful, hesitant. He’s not sure if she’ll leave, now that they’ve had their fun. _Is this alright?_

Still sleepy, but gentle. Relieved. She’s still here, still _likes_ him. _Good morning._

Proud and more than a little smug, right on the street in front of the Fury and half of Ishgard. _Look who I’ve got._

Soft and reassuring, pressed into her temple and the fall of her hair after she’s woken them both screaming from another nightmare. _I shan’t allow anyone to hurt you._

Matter-of-fact, lips warm against her cheek. _Good morning, darling._

Triumphant, victorious. _My hero!_

Hot and hungry, hands buried in her hair and leaving her braids in complete disarray. They’ve been apart too long. _I missed you. Not just this—I missed_ _ **you.**_

Warm, slow, almost reluctant. Neither of them really want to be awake yet. _Five more minutes…?_

Goodbye. _Come back soon._


	19. Judgement

“ _You speak of sins, my lord, but at whose feet do those sins lie? With the soldiers who committed the crimes, or those who commanded them to do so? With both, I would say, for all have a conscience, and all must choose."_

The battle is won.

Yotsuyu lies at the other end of the dais in a crumpled heap, pierced by a thousand swords and scorched by a thousand spells. Without the aetheric spell of the primal around her (so much like Ysayle, so much like Ysayle raw with pain and grief beyond reckoning), she is so very small. Ritanelle thinks she could probably pick her up, if she had a mind to.

She’s not even sure she can pick _herself_ up. Tales of the Warriors of Light never mention how much fighting primals takes out of the ones who survive it; Gantsetseg is rolling painfully to her feet and Eirk’a is barely standing on a bleeding leg, but they’re in better physical shape than she is. Rita’s more inclined to stay kneeling right here on the cold metal floor, thank you. Possibly forever. Yotsuyu’s crimes had been a distant thing, filtered by secondhand accounts and malms of distance. But Tsuyu…

She closes her eyes. She had _known_ Tsuyu, even if only for a short time. The woman’s pain, even now, bears the serrated gut-spilling edge of familiarity. _Worthless, burdensome, weak, at least she’s a pretty face for whatever use that is—_

Yotsuyu is struggling to speak. Her legs feel like solid lead, but she forces herself to stand. Eirk’a is closer but _she_ is the summoner, she carries the legacy of old Allag and the soulstone of Wiyu, and it is her _duty_ (would be even if she wasn’t a Scion, even if she wasn’t Hydaelyn’s beloved daughter) to hear the invoker’s last words. And if nothing else, she owes it to Gosetsu. The old man deserves to know Tsuyu didn’t die alone.

The gunshots ring too loud in the stillness.

_Asahi._

Rage burns through her exhaustion; he’s talking, but she’s not listening. Behind her Gantsetseg screams, inarticulate fury given form, but dodging Tsukuyomi’s death spasms have clearly done something to her back because Asahi still has a face to talk with. Ritanelle doesn’t turn to look. She sees red, and him. She’s not sure she can even summon up the aether to light a candle right now, but it doesn’t matter. She still has her clawed gauntlets. For the man who paraded their parents in front of his traumatized sister, the man without whose meddling Tsuyu would even now be simple and happy and able to start a new life, the man who is taunting her as she lays dying—for that man, Ritanelle will use her bare fucking hands to rip him apart, and she will _glory_ in the blood staining her to the elbows.

(Yotsuyu was evil, but she was not evil alone, and even monsters have their births.)

She walks.

Asahi is still frothing at the mouth when Yotsuyu lifts a hand, skewering him with her last shards of earthly aether.

She kneels.

“ _Was the fruit...as sweet...as he remembered?”_

She closes Yotsuyu’s eyes. Her own are dry, but her heart burns.


	20. Laugh

It had taken her an entire bell to find Eirk’a Demau in the maze that was Kugane. When she finally did, she had to fight back the urge to scream. She wasn’t sure her voice would carry that far, anyway.

He was _really_ high up. Worse, he was waving at her. “Come on! You have to see this view!”

She stared up at him—fifty feet above the ground, arm wrapped lazily around a support beam and tail coiled around his perch like a drop from that height wouldn’t kill him, Echo or no. “...You’re bloody joking, aye?”

He flashed his fangs in a grin she could see from where she stood. “The climb’s not as hard as it looks, I promise!”

She eyed the decorative molding that wrapped around the spire, which he must have used to make his way up. Some of it had his claw marks in it. “You’re mad.”

“Am not! Come _on!”_

Honestly, she’d done stupider things in the heat of the moment, and she could probably use her magic to float back down if she lost her grip. And if the view of the city from above was as lovely as he said, it _would_ probably be worth seeing at least once. Sighing, she summoned Garuda-egi and started to climb.

She made it roughly ten feet off the ground before she started regretting her life choices. She made it twenty before she started _really_ regretting her life choices, starting with leaving the Shroud and going through every one that had led her here, in Kugane, trying to climb up the side of Shiokaze Hostelry in the middle of the night. _Bloody...swivin’ hells...my arms are killin’ me, Eirs, how do you do this every day?!_

A clawed hand reached down and pulled her to a ledge. “Here.”

She immediately flicked his ear. “This had better be the kind of view people write poems over, mate.”

“See for yourself!”

The rest of the climb went much easier when she had help. After another small eternity of aching muscles and suffering, she and Eirk’a sat together near the top of the tower, him leaning against her with his tail curled loosely against her back. It was comfortable here, in the silence.

And the city spread out below them, still brilliant with its lanterns in the darkness. Words failed her.

“...You were right.”

“See?”

She elbowed him. “Wait until Gan gets back from the Steppes and sees this. We’ll never see her at ground level again!” She couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her at the thought; the third member of their squad was _exactly_ the sort of person who’d never stick to the streets if she could jump from roof to roof instead. It was how she and Eirk’a had became friends.

Eirk’a chuckled. “She was the one who showed me!”

“She _didn’t._ Are you saying someone actually beat you in your quest to be the first to climb every tall thing in Eorzea?!” She was laughing even as she spoke; it was increasingly difficult to retrain her natural squeaks. Sound carried.

He sighed, ears drooping exaggeratedly. “She did. While I was dealing with _Hancock.”_

Apparently, there was someone even Eirk’a’s Echo-granted gift of empathy didn’t make it any easier to deal with. This time she didn’t stifle her laughter, and it rang out across Kugane.


	21. Memory

There were things to be said for the Echo. Not necessarily good things, sometimes, but the power to see into the past or into the hearts of men wasn’t to be discounted.

Especially when they weren’t able to speak for themselves. Her heart felt like it was in a vice, but Ritanelle picked up her earrings with bare hands anyway, and stared at the garnet unicorn’s head picked out on the black onyx field until it blurred before her eyes. They’d been a present from Emmanellain for luck; she’d given them to Alphinaud before he left for Garlemald. _(Come back safe, alright?)_ He’d had them in his pockets when he’d been...taken.

(She wondered if the voice had told _him_ to throw wide the gates.)

She breathed in.

Flash.

_A silversmith’s shop in Ishgard, bustling with noise as the owner’s many children—_

_No,_ she thought. _More recent._

Flash.

_Warm, gentle hands wrapped around hers, pressing the earrings into her palms. “I know you hardly need the luck, old girl, but—“_

_Still too far back!_

Flash.

_The sound of heavy, exhausted footfalls. The huff of breath in the cold, dry air of the Burn. Alphinaud’s throat feels like it’s been taken out and rolled in sand, and he’s half-seriously giving thought to stabbing Gaius in the back for another canteen of water. But they have to conserve what they have; it’s a long way to the nearest Imperial post. He’s looking forward to it; though he doesn’t glory in combat, at least taking down a Black Rose facility will have the added benefit of granting them temporary control over a place with plumbing and, hopefully, an airship they can steal._

_Valdeaulin’s hand lands on his shoulder. He doesn’t shrug it off; he’s discovered, in the weeks of travel, that something in the man’s demeanour—steady and businesslike, with anger boiling away just below the surface—reminds him sharply of Estinien. It’s comforting, like home. Like the earrings he keeps in his pocket, the ones Ritanelle gave him. “You alright?”_

_Alphinaud nods. “Your vision is better in the dark; can you see our target yet?”_

_He straightens up, squinting over the top of Gaius’s head. “Not much farther now. Prepare yourself.”_

_Alphinaud’s hand goes to his grimoire, and he nods. He has no intention of dying here. The spike of love for his family, for his friends, for Eorzea hits Ritanelle so hard she almost cries._

Flash.

Ritanelle buried her face in her hands to stifle the sob that wanted to escape. _He loved—loves us so much. He wanted so badly to see his sister again. And that thing—that thing has dared—_

She breathed out. Counted to ten. Breathed in. Counted to ten again. Let it out. She was in her office in one of the upper spires of the Rising Stones. If she lost her temper, she’d blow out the windows again. Alphinaud wouldn’t want that. She owed it to him—to Alisaie and Krile, waiting for him to wake—to keep it together. _Just hang in there, Alphy. We’ll get to the bottom of this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rita thinks alphy is the best little brother ok


	22. Salvation

One day, she knows, Gridania will come to her on bended knee. Their heads will bow low, their hands will shake, and they will look up at her and cringe away from the look in her eyes, cold and uncaring as the moon above. 

Kan-E-Senna herself will kneel and place her staff at her feet, hands clasped in supplication, and swear to do better, to uplift the Duskwights and the Keepers and the refugees until they stand at the same heights as the other citizens of the Twelveswood (until not one child is called  _cat_ or  _grey worm_ or told to  _go back where you came from),_ regardless of who they are or whether they were born under the Shroud’s green shade, if she will only—

(deign to)

(do her duty and)

(take up her grimoire, call her friends, call the chained reflections of the gods she’s slain and)

—kill another primal for them. Clean up their messes. Slay and slay and _slay_ (sylph or moogle or Ixal, it matters not, they are only _beasts),_ so that their hands remain clean. So that they can shake their heads sadly and say _Oh, what can you do, beastmen are a trial._ Or _The Ixal are a blight on this land._ Or _We simply can’t know what drives this fanatical devotion to their god._ (They scour her peoples’ ruins from the earth below and drive the Keepers from the trees above, and they wonder at the stings of wasps and the fangs in the night.)

They will call her to save them from terrors of their own making, the demons conjured by those they’ve driven to the brink. They will call her  _Hero, Warrior of Light._ They will beg. She will let them.

And then she will close her eyes, hating herself, feeling the blood of her ancestors pound through her veins, and she will say

(no)

(no)

(in Hydaelyn’s name)

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cups hands around mouth and yells* RECLAIM


	23. Loyalty

They call her Leveilleur’s dog. ( _Leveilleur’s bitch,_ once, until she’d turned and smiled and asked them to repeat that, please. It had not been repeated.)

In meetings, she takes the chair at his right hand if Alisaie isn’t there, or his left hand if she is. She sits fully armored, masked with a dragon’s horns, her face as impassive as she can make it. (Depending on the surroundings it’s often safer than letting herself voice too many opinions; she holds tight to her grudges but she _won’t_ let herself upset the delicate houses of cards he builds.) She runs her fingers over her grimoire and ruffles the pages. She smiles like a knife sliding out of its sheath. In battle, her spells form his vanguard; she’s seen full-grown imperial legati take a step backwards when they look up from his azure gaze to realize just _who_ is looming behind him protectively. Where Eirk’a is quietly supportive warmth and Gantsetseg is screaming rage, she is the steady retreat of the ocean before the tsunami strikes.

It hasn’t always been so. She’ll never forget the day they met.

Mostly because she’d wanted to slap him silly. She’d staggered into the church of Saint Adama Landama, scraped hollow with her grief, to weep for the loss of her friends and what she’d just begun to hope could be a home. She’d wanted nothing more than to curl up in the arms of literally  _any_ of her remaining fellows and lay on the floor until she sunk into the stone. And then Alphinaud Leveilleur had strolled up, all brassy confidence and self-assurance, and she’d hated him instantly. He’d been bossy, arrogant, high-handed, and treated her more like a fancy weapon with a name than a comrade. (Looking back on herself, she can’t blame him for all of that; she’d been more like Alisaie at that height and he’s taller than she was at his age, but the need to be taken seriously even though you’re still just five fulms tall really is universal.) And yet...and yet she’d stayed, at first, because he was her only lifeline. And because she’d stayed, she’d learned he was more than he appeared at first glance. She still remembers the odd mixed feelings she’d had the first time she’d leapt to his defense, the first time she’d looked to him and realized she could trust him. She’d still been wary, then.

But now? Now that they’ve drank together, fought wars together, crossed shards together? Now that she’s shielded him from primals with her own body and watched him sob over his friends’ injuries? Now that she’s seen the look in his eyes when he’s charged a bridge to tear the specter of a thousand years of rage from Estinien’s bones? Now that he’s hugged her and let her ruffle his hair countless times, even though it must be murder on his carefully honed dignity?

“ _If I am a dog, ‘ware my fangs.”_


	24. Drink

The sign over the door proclaimed it the Last Step. True to its name, it was situated on the very edge of one of Ishgard’s dizzying drops into the void. (Rita had been in the city for three bells and had run into at least six of those drops. She’d honestly been surprised that more bars didn’t bear the name.) It didn’t look like much from the outside—gray stone, black wood, white signage. Inside, however, it was warm and well-lit and, remarkably enough, clean. She was feeling good about her prospects of getting a decent glass of something warming into her before braving the Pillars and finding their new...base. (She wasn’t yet prepared to call it a refuge. Haurchefant had sworn up and down that they’d be accepted by his family, but there was still plenty of time for it to go arseways.)

The bartender was eyeing her with the same wary gaze she’d received from most of the city on her way here. This time, at least, she was sure it was because her garb marked her as an adventurer, and not for the undertones of her skin; his own was an even richer gray than hers. “What can I get you, miss?”

“Mulled wine if you have it, regular wine if you don’t.” Mulled wine was duly produced, and she took her mug to a corner table. _All I need ‘s the hood and the sour expression, and I’d be just a walking cliche._ She couldn’t help but smile at the thought as she sipped her wine (which was actually _very_ good, though not quite as strong as the Seventh Heaven’s mead—no, no, she wouldn’t think about that now) and settled in to watch the rest of the bar. It was quiet. Boring. The other occupants sat and drank, talking quietly.

She nursed her drink slowly, feeling the warmth suffuse her.  _Maybe I’ll find a different bar. Even a place like this has to have a night life, right?_

And then the door slammed open with a gust of freezing wind and a crowd of half-a-dozen tipsy young men, and her ears perked up. By their attire—heavy damasks and furs and fine leather—they were wealthy, and by the slurred laughter and ribald comments that lit up her ears, they were...well,  _much_ less strait-laced than the other locals she’d met so far. She found herself sitting up a bit in her chair, looking them over more closely. A few blonds, one with striking green hair, a redhead, one with the dark hair and pale skin she’d always rather liked... 

They piled into the table next to hers, and her ears rotated to catch their conversation. 

“...and she said, ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Stick it in the chocobo!’”

“Pft, I’ve heard that one before. Why’d you bring us here, anyway?”

“ _I_ heard they’ve got simply the _best_ mulled wine—“

Before she could stop herself, she called over, “They really do!”

The one who had brought up the wine—the handsome dark-haired one, who now that she looked closer was maybe around her age and wearing a fine ruby signet ring—grinned, mouthing  _see?_ at his friends. His green-haired friend nudged him, smirking, and murmured with an undertone that was nowhere near as quiet as he probably hoped, “Best  _girls_ too, huh? Have you been holding out on us, Emm?”

“Use your eyes, Pami. Does she look like a local to you?” That was one of the blonds.

“She has to be an adventurer—“

“Oh aye, with legs like that!”

“—wonder where she’s from—“

Slowly, Rita sat back in her chair and crossed her legs again. She couldn’t help but grin into her mug as the men yelled out their drink orders to the barmaid and continued chattering next to her—wondering where she hailed from, if she was  _really_ an adventurer, what she was doing here all alone. She found herself pondering whether it was the stranglehold of Ishgardian mores that was preventing any of them from asking her themselves, or just the rarity of meeting an armed woman who wasn’t visibly a knight.  _Or maybe they’re more invested in showing off for their mates to impress me._

The chair next to her clattered against the stone, and she looked up into the grinning face of the dark-haired man whose friends had called him Emm. Up close, his eyes were startlingly blue. “So,  _are_ you an adventurer, my lady?”

She took a sip of her drink, casting a sideways glance at him. “I might be. Or I might just be a woman looking for a good drink.”

His eyes gleamed as he settled back in his chair, but she marked the nervous flick of his ears. “Hmm. How about a good time?”

She gasped in mock outrage, making her eyes round and innocent. “And here I don’t even know your name, sir!” For a moment she swore she could hear generations’ worth of past good, respectable Gridanian maidens fainting in horror—and just as many cheering, when she laid her fingers lightly on his sleeve. It really was a pity everyone in Ishgard wore so many layers, she would have liked to judge—

_Oh, bugger._

Flash.

_It lays too heavy on this boy’s shoulders, he’s so terribly thin and small and Emm’s heart aches; such a clever lad shouldn’t be left in the cold. “C_ _ome with me,” he says, and thinks that he’ll die before he lets this boy feel cold or hunger again. Warmth/trust/safety envelops her like a blanket. The boy hasn’t had good things or kind words from many people, but he knows (books, food, a few coins pressed into his palm shiny and silver) that this nobleman would never hurt him._

It was over in an instant, and she was still wondering who the boy was when she registered that Emm was responding.

Even though he was red all the way to the ends of his ears and attempting to hide it with a gulp of his wine. “ _Um._ Emm—Emmanellain.”

“Emmanellain.” She rolled it around on her tongue, smirking at the incremental widening of his eyes. “I’m Ritanelle—and to answer your question, I _am_ an adventurer. New to the city, I’m afraid.”

His face lit up. “Oh, you simply must let me show you around some time! What do you think of it so far?”

“...I think…” She thought for a moment, letting her gaze slide away before casting a glance up at him through her lashes. Sometimes it was good to be short. “I think I haven’t seen _nearly_ enough of the pleasures of your fair city, and I could use an experienced guide.”

“Oh. Oh, _really.”_ He probably thought the expression on his face was sly, but the interest in his eyes was far too honest to really pull it off. He shifted closer to her, brushing his knee against her thigh. “Well, then, allow me to start by buying you a drink?”

“...Hmmm...no, thank you.” Y’shtola had once warned her to see how a man took _no_ for an answer on small things before trusting him. She’d never been able to thank her for that.

He tilted his head, gaze stubbornly hopeful. Like a puppy, she thought. “...A plate of those grilled sausage things, perhaps?”

Ooh, she hadn’t realized there  _were_ grilled sausages.  _And I haven’t gotten to try the local food yet..._ “That would be grand, aye.”

Later—after a solid meal, more wine, bolder touches, and some truly  _hilariously_ awful pickup lines—he grinned wickedly and asked her if she wanted to go somewhere quieter. 

She said yes.

(When, the next morning after some truly fantastic sex, she discovered that Emm was  _Haurchefant’s younger brother_ and the luxurious home she’d been snuck into from a back entrance was  _Fortemps Manor_ —and oh, by the way, the boy was Emm’s personal manservant Honoroit, who wasn’t even surprised to learn his master had brought company home—she forced herself to look on the bright side. At least all her luggage was here already.)


	25. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> watch as 5.3 comes along and makes this all non-canon and probably 500% sadder

_Bless this happiness we’ve found  
Bless this good and solid ground_

Revenant’s Toll was just as she remembered it. The town growing out of and around the twisted spires of Mor Dhona was still just as bustling, just as vibrant, as it had been the day she left. For a long moment, all she did was sit with her back against the aetheryte and breathe in the air, tasting the citrus-sharp burst of aether in her throat. She felt like running a malm. She felt like sobbing.

She was _home._

She closed her eyes, basking in her surroundings. _Just a few more minutes. Let me fix this in my mind._

“Hey, Rita?”

“Basking, Eirs. Basking.”

Eirk’a fondly exasperated sigh sounded close to her ear, and a gloved hand tugged her up. “Come on. Don’t you want to see everyone?”

 _My friends!_ Her eyes flew open. Before she knew it, she was on her feet and racing through the door of the Seventh Heaven, calling out to Alys and Bloezoeng and the minstrel who was _still_ ensconced in his favorite corner seat. “Hey, mates! Miss me?”

“By the onion—‘s that _Rita?!”_

“It is! And Eirk’a! We ain’t seen you in an age!”

“In two ages!”

“Did you really go off to another shard of Hydaelyn?”

“Will the Scions be alright now?”

The questions struck her hard enough to stop her in her tracks. _All that we’ve done, all that we’ve suffered...of course, they have no idea. They could only hope we weren’t dead somewhere, never mind that we might have succeeded._ She exhaled, favoring the minstrel with a shaky grin. “Aye. That we did, friend. Speaking of, we’ve got some stuff to settle, so you’ll excuse us?”

The Rising Stones infirmary was the same as it always was. Bright and quiet, scoured clear as glass, with the faint hum of aether as Krile ministered to their friends’ bodies. She let Eirk’a go on ahead of her and folded herself into a chair just outside the door, trembling. _Twelve, please...Mother Hydaelyn, if you can hear me, please…_

Joyous voices from inside. The door bursting open.

Gods, it was _so_ good to be home.


	26. Chocolate

The Fortemps Manor kitchens were probably Rita’s favorite series of rooms in the house, even if all the chairs seemed to have been designed for someone half a fulm taller than her. The kitchens were where the _food_ was, and when she was stressed or having a bad time the head cook Mellisse was always willing to let her take over a table to chop something or pummel dough into submission. It was slightly harder to be upset when she was cramming food she’d made herself into her mouth.

At the moment, she didn’t feel much like eating. She didn’t even feel like picking up a knife. She hugged her knees, staring at the floor.

There had been a funeral earlier.

Approaching footsteps pulled her out of the morass of grief she could feel swirling at her heart. “…Couldn’t sleep either?”

“Mm.”

Emmanellain looked as tired as she felt. The smile on his face was as forced as she’d ever seen it. “Shall I fetch us some hot chocolate?”

The smallest, most helpless smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Maybe I should make it. I remember the last time…”

He made a noise like a disgruntled cat as he reached for a kettle. “Alright, the toast was an utter failure on my part, but I assure you I’m capable of _heating milk_ without injuring myself.”

Insisting he learn how to cook _something_ without poisoning anyone or setting himself on fire had not, in retrospect, been her greatest plan, but she had to admit he was right; he could manage boiling things, which opened up the entire soup-and-hot-beverages category. She was safe to close her eyes and listen to him moving about the empty kitchen until a warm mug was finally pressed into her hands.

She took a deep breath, breathing in the sweet smell. She let it out in a sob.

“…Old girl?” Emmanellain took the seat across from her, folding his hands around hers.

Somehow, she managed to hold it together long enough to respond. “I can’t. I thought—I’m sorry, I thought I could, but…” She swallowed hard, remembering tales of a desperate race through the snow and the warm welcome that had saved her friends. At first she hadn’t believed him when he swore it was extended to her as well. “…He would always…he would always make us hot chocolate. To warm the bones, he said…“

Emm shuddered, dropping his gaze. His voice shook. “…Because strong drink is a liar that will leave you dead in the snow, he always…always told me…Fury.”

 _I miss him. He was a good friend. I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t even be there…_ She’d still been recovering from her broken ankle, and had been in no shape to fight. Knowing that didn’t make it any easier to bear. It wouldn’t bring him back or fix Emm’s family or balance the scales.

She tugged her hands out of Emm’s unresisting grip and took a long swig of her hot chocolate, meeting his gaze when he lifted it in confusion. “I’m going to bring a canteen of this with me when I track down Ser Zephirin. And then, when I’m standing over the remains of his misbegotten corpse, I’m going to drink it. For Haurchefant.”

He favored her with a watery smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tfw you realize your character would naturally have feelings about a death that you just...do not have. (i spoiled myself! i knew it was coming! i didn't get particularly attached!) haurchefant deserved better.


	27. Farewells

The Waking Sands was empty. Ritanelle stood in the middle of what was no longer her room and sighed, closing her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see the bare stone anymore. There had been a rug; there had been closets and a bunk bed against the left-hand wall she’d shared with Q’yala. (Yala had never wanted a roommate; they’d both been relieved when they learned they’d be able to find different spots at the Rising Stones. Rita had no intention of sharing with anyone _else_ who got up at dawn.) It had felt so much larger yesterday, before they’d stripped it bare.

Now it just looked sad.

 _I don’t want to go. I just want to lay down on this floor here._ The Rising Stones promised to be a better place for all of them, free from international politics and with plenty of room to expand, but she _liked_ the Waking Sands. She’d gotten used to it. She’d begun to put down roots. And now she was being torn up and replanted. _Bollocks, I sound like a geranium. This’s a good thing, innit? I should be…happy._

She cast one last look around the room. There was no chance she’d forgotten to pack something. There was no reason for her to linger.

“Rita! Are you still down here?”

Gantsetseg of the Bayaqud, on the other hand, was _not_ given to introspection or reminiscing. Then again, the Xaela markswoman had only been with the Scions since shortly before Operation Archon, so Rita supposed it was fair that she hadn’t been attached to the place where they gathered. As she poked her head into the room, her red eyes softened. “Taking a last look?”

Rita shrugged her shoulders. “’S hard to believe we’re moving. I thought we were pretty well set up here, you know?”

She was silent for a moment; Rita heard the steady _tock-tock-tock_ of her tail spines against the doorframe as she scrunched her face up in thought. “…The new place should be better. Maybe…we can be roommates?”

Gantsetseg, so far as Rita knew, slept like a log and didn’t wake up at dawn. She liked paper crafts and being outdoors in the sun, and wasn’t nearly as serious as Q’yala was. Rita smiled down at her. “Aye, Gan, I’d like that.”

And thus, smiling, she bid farewell to the Waking Sands.


	28. Forgiveness

She is not, by nature, a forgiving sort of person. She’s perfectly capable of holding grudges that precede her own existence, and even when she’s unable to act on them they are always there. Lurking.

_Damnable Duskwight!_

_Your cities are an affront to the elementals._

_I will not attempt to justify the ice woman’s death._

_You are unworthy!_

And now she walks through Amaurot. Emet-Selch has been vanquished, but the dreaming memory of the city he once loved still holds strong here, under the waves. In all the malms of it she’s walked, she is the only living thing. Even the shades don’t acknowledge her anymore; they go through their paces like clockwork, nodding and repeating the same things over and over. In life, it had been a place of great magical innovation, but there’s nothing new here anymore.

_Remember us, hero. Remember that we once lived._

She’d wanted to spit back at him. _How dare you ask to be remembered?! You, the architect of all the misery in the world—how dare you?_ If she hadn’t been so exhausted, she would have. But now she stands here, alone in the middle of a city of ghosts, and she feels something in her heart come loose.

It’s not forgiveness. She knows she could live a thousand years and never, _never_ forgive Emet-Selch for all the things he’s done in service to the dead. But honoring his last words…that’s something she can do.


	29. Letter

_This letter is found wedged into the bottom drawer of a desk in the Crystarium, long after the Warriors of Darkness depart for the Source. The parchment is damp in places, making the_ _dense lines of shaky handwriting smudge._

Dear Emmanellain,

I pray you continue well. ~~Please still be~~ ~~well~~ ~~.~~ Do not dare forget the Promises we made to each other. I have still not resumed Smoking ~~even though it’s so tempting,~~ ~~ **so tempting**~~ , so You had best be keeping up with your Training! I am sure Honoroit is keeping you on your toes; how are his book sales going? Does he plan for any others? Personally, I think a Vanu-Common primer would be a Fine Idea. There are no Vanu here, which is Most Strange & Makes Me Terribly Homesick. There are Quite A Few things here missing here. This world has lost So Much to a most terrible flood of pure Light aether.

~~I don’t think I can~~

~~I can’t~~ ~~do this~~

Do you know who is here, though? All my Scion friends! Well, very nearly all. Gan is still back home and you shall most Assuredly be receiving regular visits from her. But the Leveilleurs and Y’shtola and Urianger and ~~regrettably~~ Thancred are here, their souls Safe and Sound. ~~I don’t know how we’re getting back home~~ I am sure it will not be Very Long until we are All Reunited With Our Various Friends, Family, Corpuses, et cetera, but sadly we must finish our Work here first. (Once Again It Falls To **Us** To Prevent A Most Terrible Calamity.)

~~I miss you~~

~~I should have told y~~

Please be safe, and **Do Not worry about me.** I regularly slay Gods, and the Trees here are not the sort you must protect me from.

Yours,

Rita

  
  


_This letter is found crumpled into a ball with such force that the page has torn in several places._

Emm,

I think I’m dying I think I’m already dead

the Light _HURTS_

I’m sorry I couldn’t save anyone

~~remember me?~~

~~I love you~~

  
  


_This letter consists of but a single line, written in a bold, clear hand._

Emm,

I’m coming home.


	30. Metamorphosis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me? Latching onto NPCS so minor they only have two lines and a lorebook blurb, and only show up ingame between two quests at the very end of ARR (2.0)? MORE LIKELY THAN YOU’D THINK.

Minfilia was braver than her, Rita decided. _She_ would never have the guts to more or less walk directly into the deepest, darkest, most twisted corners of the Black Shroud to recruit for the Scions, especially armed only with a sharp knife and a miner’s pickaxe. Then again, nobody wanted the Garlean Empire encroaching on their territory, whether they raised their own flag or not. The Redbelly Wasps had been in the back of her mind since the announcement of Operation Archon; hero or no, she still found herself hoping they were safe. _Well. As safe as they can be. I wonder if that group remembers me…_

It had been years ago, and she’d traveled with them for scarcely a week. She doubted it.

Sighing, she turned another page in the ledger. A favor for Tataru had landed her up here, in the reception room, and she was bored already. _“I have to take inventory_ _before we set off_ _but someone needs to be on hand in case our new_ _Walker_ _recruit show_ _s_ _up,” she says. “I’ll hold the fort,” I say, like_ _the_ _bloody great idjit I am. Could be workin’ through the new articles in the Arcanist Guild journals but noooo._

“Good morning, I’m here to speak with Mistress Warde regarding a position?”

The voice—rough and vaguely familiar—made her ears perk, and she looked up at the strange elezen man in the doorway. His skin was ashen, his hair bore its share of tiny braids, and there were tiny, cheap glasses perched on his nose. For a long moment, the pieces refused to coalesce into a coherent whole, and then her brain screeched to a stop. “You’re—Dariustel?!”

“Do I know you?” He stepped closer, squinting at her. She saw the exact moment realization dawned. “Wait. You’re the girl! Rinette, aye?”

She winced. Even with fine robes and a twisted-root rune tattoo, she was still recognizable to anyone who’d known her from Gridania. _Maybe I should dye my hair. But…Dari is safe. I’m sure he is._ “Aye. It’s been a while, but…here I am. Name’s Ritanelle now.”

He was eyeing her warily. Her ears flagged as he questioned, “And you’re a Scion? How long have you been here?”

She shrugged, as though it was a casual thing and not the greatest thing to ever happen to her job prospects. “Half a year? I have to admit it’s blended together a bit. But it’s grand here, we’re doing so much for the world!” _Like mak_ _ing sure we still have one._ “Minfilia will be glad to see you made it.”

“Hm.” He stood over her desk now, dropping his voice until she had to strain to hear him. “I’ve heard of a _Ritanelle Soleil,_ you know, even in the Twelveswood. They say you’ve killed primals, that you fear nothing. Does she know what you’ve done?”

Ice dripped through her veins. For a moment, she forgot to breathe. _Murderer._

And then she laughed, a half-hysterical crack of sound. “I don’t think she’d care if she did! I doubt she cares about all the red in _your_ ledger, either. You’ve the Echo, so you’re welcome here. Whatever you did in the past, it doesn’t matter now.”

He was silent for just long enough to be awkward, but she saw his ears flicking back and forth—mulling it over, no doubt. “…I suppose I’ll give these Scions a fair shot, then. They seem to be doing _you_ a world of good.”

“…What makes you say that?”

He flashed her a lopsided smile. “Rinette was a terrified little mouse. But you, Miss Soleil…if the Wailers could see the look in your eyes right now, _they’d_ be the ones running scared. You’ve changed a lot.”

 _…_ _He’s right. I have._ She couldn’t help but smile back. “Well, then. Welcome to the Scions, Dariustel.”

As she rose to unlock the door to the first basement, he added, “You’re still a tiny little thing, though. I don’t know how the primals didn’t just snap you up!”

She might have come a long way from the frightened, bleeding girl in the Shroud, but she was still petty enough to elbow him in the ribs.


End file.
